


Pretty Piece of Tail

by philalethia



Series: Spoiled Kitty 'Verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Cat Ears, Collars, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Pet Play, Praise Kink, Prostate Orgasm, Sherlock is a Brat, Tails, pillow humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to make John regret leaving him for a shift at the surgery. Nothing goes quite as planned, but he's certainly not complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Piece of Tail

“They’re perfectly capable of getting on without you,” Sherlock said.

That, combined with his current position—prone, head pillowed on his folded arms and turned towards John—should have been enough. The bedsheets were in a bundle between his thighs, and his hips were lifted, accentuating the dip in his spine and the curve of his arse. John should have abandoned the hateful task of dressing himself and climbed back into bed, covered Sherlock’s body with his own, and laid a row of wet kisses along Sherlock’s nape.

John barely glanced at him.

“They’re not, actually,” he said, doing the zip on his trousers. “That’s why they phoned. Chandra’s still out with flu and they need someone to fill in.”

And with that, he grabbed a pair of socks and swept out of the bedroom, still not so much as glancing at the picture of wantonness Sherlock knew very well that he made.

The moment John was out of sight, Sherlock clambered to his feet and looked around. A sheet? Nude? No—dressing gown! He lunged for the wardrobe, threw open the door, and began to rifle through the contents. The burgundy one contrasted attractively with his skin, the solid blue one was irresistibly soft to the touch, the striped blue one—the striped blue one! Silk and thin, often staticky after it had been laundered. It would cling obscenely. John would be salivating and hauling them both back to bed in no time.

Sherlock threw it on, tied the belt loosely, and hurried to the kitchen, where John was stood in front of the sink eating the last of Mrs Hudson’s lemon scones off the plate she’d delivered them on.

“Surely there are locums they can hire,” said Sherlock, resisting the urge to whinge. “Why don’t they ring one of those?”

To his delight, John glanced at him and was loath to look away. His gaze lingered near the V of bare skin on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock promptly lowered one shoulder, willing the collar of his dressing gown to sag teasingly, but it stayed stubbornly in place. Stupid, _stupid_ , Sherlock should have left the belt untied.

Seeming to remember himself, John blinked and stuffed the last bite of scone into his mouth. He set the plate in the sink while he chewed and swallowed.

“Because they rang me instead,” he said. “And I can fill in.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock said. There was perhaps a hint of a whinge in his tone this time, although who could blame him with John behaving like this.

As John tried to skirt around him and retreat into the sitting room, Sherlock grasped his arm with an insistent “ _John_ ” and, struck with inspiration, urged John’s hand down between the folds of his dressing gown. Once there, John didn’t need any further encouragement; his hand closed around the base of Sherlock’s prick entirely of his own accord. It was far from erect, but it twitched and began to stiffen obediently when John gave it a tiny squeeze. Then he stroked, slowly but confidently, to the tip and then back down, pulling Sherlock’s foreskin back as he did. Sherlock’s knees threatened to wobble, and he clasped John’s trousers, fingers hooking into the pockets, to steady himself.

“See?” He made sure that his voice wavered pitifully as his cock continued to thicken in John’s grip. “I need you.”

Lips tightening, John stepped closer until he could almost lay his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He wrapped his free arm around Sherlock’s waist, grabbed a handful of his dressing gown, and began to gather more and more of the fabric in his fist until Sherlock’s knees, thighs, and finally his bottom were bared. Sherlock’s breath caught and he shuffled his legs farther apart just as John slipped two fingers into his cleft. As he trailed them over Sherlock’s arsehole, he applied the slightest bit of pressure, just enough to remind Sherlock of how it felt to be slicked up and opened and stuffed full of as many fingers as John could fit inside him.

_Oh_ , he thought, eyes drifting shut, _oh god yes._ He was practically clinging to John’s hips now and swaying backwards, trying to nudge John’s fingers properly inside, although of course John wouldn’t allow it without lubricant. Lubricant that was—Sherlock thought quickly—in the bedroom at present. John would have to leave to fetch it. While he was gone, Sherlock could bend himself over the table—

John withdrew, leaving Sherlock bereft and confused. His hole clenched, mourning the loss.

“You’re very, very tempting right now, I admit it,” said John. “But it’s only five hours.”

“Closer to six with the travel time,” Sherlock corrected. His lower lip tried to plump into a pout.

John swept past him and into the sitting room, calling back “You’ll manage!”

_Manage_. Sherlock screwed up his face. He didn’t want to _manage_. Failure was as sharp and terrible as a line of push pins on his tongue, made even worse by the erection that was now tenting his dressing gown.

Pointedly looking away from John, who had sat in his armchair to put on his shoes, Sherlock strode into the sitting room and threw himself face-down on the sofa.

“Don’t be like that,” John sighed. “It’s not worth sulking over. If the surgery hadn’t phoned, you’d be in the kitchen with your skin samples right now ignoring me.”

That… wasn’t entirely inaccurate, Sherlock supposed, but he wasn’t going to sabotage his own case by confirming it. He bent his legs and rolled over, so he was curled up on his side facing the sofa back. He heard John sigh again, more heavily this time, and heave himself noisily to his feet.

“Fine. Suppose I’ll be off, then. I’ll grab a coffee on the way.”

Obviously. Otherwise he’d have made a cup of tea by now. Sherlock snorted but said nothing.

“Can I kiss you goodbye, you numpty, or would you rather carry on sulking all day?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and curled up even more tightly, his spine and shoulders rigid.

“Suit yourself.” Footsteps on the rug, approaching the door. “I’ll see you in five-ish hours.”

“ _Six_ ,” Sherlock hissed, quietly enough that it was drowned out by John throwing open the door and closing it a moment later.

Sherlock lifted his head, listening closely, but instead of carrying on downstairs, John’s footsteps paused just outside and then turned around. The door opened.

“Wallet.” John’s tone was stern, utterly no-nonsense.

Sherlock found his shoulders hunching instinctively even as he answered loftily, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

It was an angry bark that time, and Sherlock abandoned all attempts at subterfuge. He retrieved John’s wallet from the pocket of his dressing gown and held it aloft, where John plucked it from his hand.

“Cheers,” John said, perfectly pleasant again.

Then, to Sherlock’s surprise, he bent over to lay a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head. Lightly, barely even ruffling Sherlock’s curls. Before Sherlock could stop himself, he was raising his head instinctively: inviting John to kiss his forehead, which he did with a pleased hum. Despite himself, Sherlock felt affection swell like a bellows in his chest.

John murmured into Sherlock’s skin, “Try to eat something before you have a wank, yeah?”

The affection promptly shrivelled. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t be masturbating now that John apparently expected it.

John drew back. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, and then he was gone. The door closed behind him, and this time his footsteps continued down the stairs and onto the pavement outside.

Sherlock rose, aimed a solid kick to the coffee table (which shook and skidded loudly and satisfyingly across the floor), and flopped back down on the sofa.

*

Sherlock spent an indeterminate amount of time weighing the benefits and drawbacks of setting his skin samples on fire one by one and filling the flat with smoke, not to mention the smell of burnt flesh, which would surely linger for at least _five-ish_ hours.

At some point, he became aware of the familiar _clop-clop_ of Mrs Hudson’s shoes on the stairs, moving more slowly and carefully than usual. Carrying a full tea tray, cautious of spilling anything, Sherlock thought. As the door opened, he lifted his head to check that his deduction was correct, and when he saw that it was, he lowered it again.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson called. “Thought I’d bring you up some tea.”

“John phoned you,” said Sherlock, which made Mrs Hudson chortle.

“You think I need John to tell me when you’re in a strop?” She set the tray gently on the coffee table. “First you’re up here kicking furniture about, and then I don’t hear a peep from you in more than two hours. It’s not exactly a leap. Oh I should know by now, but I can never remember—one lump or two? And if you could cover yourself up a bit, dear, that’d be nice.”

Sherlock sat up, rearranging his dressing gown so all the indecent bits were hidden. _At least the erection’s gone down_ , he thought but didn’t say. “One.”

He watched as she made him a cup of tea and then accepted it from her hands when she offered it. But to his dismay, she didn’t leave when that was done. Instead, she made herself a cup and sat in John’s chair, which she angled towards him, as though she meant to stay and chat.

_Of course she does_. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slouched, not giving a toss any longer if he exposed himself.

“What’s got you in such a snit, then?” Mrs Hudson said.

“I wanted a good hard buggering over the kitchen table, but John insisted on going to work instead,” Sherlock answered, hoping to shock.

Stupid. Of course Mrs Hudson was made of stronger stuff than that. She didn’t even blink. “Well, with an attitude like that, I’m surprised he’s ever in the mood for it, to be honest. I suppose that explains the—”

She gestured towards Sherlock and his gaping dressing gown. Sherlock decided not to dignify that with a response aside from another eye roll and a prim sip of his tea.

“You should’ve worn the collar.”

Sherlock choked, coughing and dribbling tea down his front, while Mrs Hudson smirked to herself and took a sip from her own cup.

“What?” Sherlock said when he’d finally stopped sputtering.

Mrs Hudson’s smirk only widened. “It’s sitting on the sofa arm, you clot.”

Sherlock looked, and indeed it was. The plum-coloured, silver-belled leather collar he often put on when he played at being John’s pet. He’d set it there more than a week ago, expecting that John would put it away, although he obviously hadn’t. Nor had either of them even noticed it there, sitting on the sofa in plain sight. Which said rather a lot about the two of them, Sherlock supposed.

Then he rewound the last several seconds in his mind, replayed Mrs Hudson’s comment, and immediately wanted to drop his head into his hands.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. What had he been thinking?

Mrs Hudson was right. He shouldn’t have bothered with posing on the bed or slipping into a flimsy dressing gown; he should’ve just _put on his bloody pet collar_. It hadn’t even occurred to him. Why hadn’t it occurred to him? Simplest answer: he’d allowed it to become too commonplace, too easily forgotten. Like the collar, overlooked on the sofa for a week because Sherlock hadn’t wanted to bother with putting it away properly.

_Stupid_. John loved Sherlock as a pet, fawned over him, called him “Good boy,” and spoiled him, and Sherlock had chosen the ordinary option, the dull option, and then had a sulk on the sofa: the epitome of a bad boy.

_Fix it._

“And for god’s sake, Sherlock,” said Mrs Hudson, “put something on. It’s not decent.”

Sherlock set his cup on the coffee table so haphazardly that tea splashed over the top. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. So nice chatting with you, sorry you have to leave so soon, but believe me when I say you don’t want to be here for the next bit.”

Clever woman, Mrs Hudson. She didn’t argue with him at all, just gathered up her tea tray and gave him a wink as she left.

*

The whole time Sherlock was preparing, he could hear John’s voice in his head, incredulous and mocking: _‘Seriously, Sherlock, what on earth are you expecting this to do?’_

“Make you regret it,” Sherlock answered aloud. “Perhaps you’d prefer I fill the flat with smoke instead?”

There was no response, but then again, Sherlock didn’t need one. This was a much, much better idea than burning his skin samples.

When the collar and the black cat ears he sometimes paired it with were arranged artfully on the still-bundled bedsheets—not that John would care about artfulness, but Sherlock saw no point in bothering with any of it if he wasn’t going to put forth his best effort—Sherlock fetched his mobile phone and snapped a photo of the items on the bed. Then he texted it to John and sat down to wait.

After ten minutes, Sherlock began to suspect that John wasn’t going to respond. Possibly he had muted his phone or turned it off altogether or—

No, Sherlock thought, of course not. John would never intentionally make himself inaccessible, not with the sort of lives he and Sherlock led. He kept his mobile, on vibration mode, on him at all times; Sherlock had texted him during enough dates—years ago, obviously—to know that.

More likely then that he’d got the text, seen Sherlock’s photo, and then replaced his phone in his pocket without replying, possibly with a sigh and that expression he always adopted when he thought Sherlock was being especially difficult (his eyes widened slightly and turned skywards, his lips parted and his stupidly, spectacularly expressive tongue twisted towards the left side of his mouth).

_Idiot_ , Sherlock thought heatedly, albeit more at himself than John. A photo like that, inexplicit and suggestive, would’ve piqued Sherlock’s interest because he was used to exploring possibilities. John’s mind was duller, less imaginative. He’d need something more.

Sherlock put the collar on. The bell jingled incessantly as he fit the leather around his throat and buckled it. Although the sound was obscene to him—so often in his experience was it accompanied by the wet lapping of his tongue up and down John’s cock, the squelch of John’s fingers pumping in and out of his hole, the slap of John’s hand on Sherlock’s bare bottom—he knew it would’ve been perfectly innocent to anyone else, which sent a thrill down his spine. Even in sex he could observe what everyone else was ignorant of.

When the collar was in place, Sherlock took a photo of himself: a close-up of his throat (his head tilted back to better capture the length of it) with the collar nestled just below his adam’s apple, the bell perfectly centred.

Immediately after the photo was sent, he took another: this one with the ears on as well as the collar. He lay flat on his back, holding his phone an arm’s length above him, and snapped rapidly until he had a shot in which he looked suitably needy: his eyes half-lidded and unfocused, his lips wet and red, his spine arched slightly.

_Please_ , the photo said. _I need you, please._

John would love it.

Sherlock sent it and set his phone on the pillow beside his head. While he waited, he mapped the cracks on the ceiling (all of them small, barely visible, but still very much there despite Mrs Hudson’s vehement protests the last time Sherlock had brought them up) and trailed his fingertips up and down his sternum. He’d already removed his dressing gown—obviously, since kittens didn’t wear clothing—but now he began to wish he hadn’t. Let John see it hanging off his shoulders in the photos and wish he’d stayed home today so he could have helped Sherlock take it off.

John always relished the opportunity to help Sherlock undress. To stand chest to chest while he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, to tell Sherlock _‘Arms out’_ and kiss Sherlock’s chin when he obeyed, followed by a kiss to his bare shoulder, a nuzzle to his collarbone, and a lick to his jaw.

Then: John framing Sherlock’s throat between his hands like a work of art, John winding the collar around it, John telling him _‘There we go. Gorgeous. Mm, you’re going under already, aren’t you? My sweet boy.’_

Sherlock realised his fingers were circling his nipples now, occasionally slipping over them, making them grow tight and sensitive. The light, teasing touch was making his prick hard. He’d be touching himself soon if he kept this up, proving John right.

_John_.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, reaching for his mobile and making the bell on his collar ring furiously. He had no new texts, although his phone claimed that all photos had been successfully delivered.

_Stubborn, bull-headed arsehole_ , he thought.

But that was fine. There was still the tail.

After returning the phone to the pillow, Sherlock went to the en suite bathroom for a quick wash, as thorough as he could manage without popping into the shower. John liked when Sherlock was properly, carefully prepared, and he’d be pleased—so very, very pleased, and so much more likely to give in to Sherlock’s needling—to see Sherlock’s hole loose and wet and perfectly clean around the plug.

When he was finished, he hurried back, retrieved the lubricant and his tail plug from the bedside table, and lay on his stomach on the bed with his legs spread.

It felt ridiculous, sticking his arse up and trying to dribble lube straight from the bottle between his arse cheeks. He miscalculated, making a mess of his thighs and the sheets; a drop or two even rolled down to the small of his back. Messy and amateurish, but he supposed it would do.

After recapping and setting the bottle aside, Sherlock scooped some of the lube from his thigh and dragged it to his arsehole. He smeared it over the rim, getting it wet, and then couldn’t resist the urge to apply the slightest hint of pressure. It felt as good as it had earlier when John had done it. The promise of more, the memory of John holding him still and fucking him and telling him how lovely he looked trying to squirm in John’s lap. It made Sherlock’s face hot and his breaths come faster.

Sherlock gathered more lube and pushed his slickened forefinger and middle finger inside. But before he’d even reached the first knuckle, he was hissing and removing them. It burned, not awfully, not unbearably by any means, but the pain was no less jarring because of that.

John would chastise him if he were here. Call him an impatient brat and make him admit out loud that he’d made a mistake. (John so, so loved when Sherlock admitted to being wrong, possibly just as much as he loved Sherlock in a collar.) Sherlock wondered if he’d be able to tell from a photograph what Sherlock had done, if Sherlock’s hole would look pink and irritated. Maybe that would prove as good a siren’s call to John: _Look. I need it so badly I’m hurting myself. Come scold me and show me how to do it right._

Doubtful, unfortunately. John wasn’t that observant.

Sherlock squeezed more lubricant from the bottle, pouring into his hand this time, and although he coated the same two fingers, he only pushed the first one into himself. Going slowly, nudging forwards in tiny increments, Sherlock’s forefinger slid smoothly in. There was only slight discomfort, much of it probably mental: his brain struggling to overcome the feeling of strangeness, of wrongness, at having a finger in his bum. It would pass. And if John were here, he would’ve been helping it along, stroking Sherlock’s back and telling him what a good boy he was, going so slowly and carefully like this.

Oh, that was a nice thought. Sherlock licked his lips and arched his spine as though into John’s touch.

He used even more lube when he slipped the second finger inside, getting his hole so wet that he could hear it: a soft squishing and squelching as his fingers slid deeper, then pulled out so they could slide in again.

“Fuck,” he said, no louder than a whisper and muffled by the pillowcase. He reached long, stuffing his fingers in as deep as they would go. “Oh, fuck.”

It was almost torturous, taking his fingers out, but fortunately his hole wasn’t empty long before he was filling it with the metal plug attached to his cat tail.

By that point, Sherlock’s knees had bent a bit, lifting his hips from the mattress. It was, he realised as soon as the plug was in place, perhaps not the best position if he didn’t want to masturbate. His cock hung beneath him, barely half-hard, but it felt so heavy, so insistent. It begged to be touched.

He turned onto his back, hoping for a reprieve, but that was even worse. The metal plug shifted inside him, stretching his hole wider, and the long, black fake fur of the tail swept against the backs of his thighs just before he lay down and flattened it. His collar jingled loudly.

_Fuck_ , he thought. And nearly said, but when Sherlock opened his mouth, the word wouldn’t come. He could only moan, small and shuddery, and think fervently, _Oh, fuck._

Experimentally, Sherlock rolled his hips. It made the plug shift again and his cock, much harder now, bob with the motion. The motion felt good enough to do again, then again even more forcefully. His legs fell open and his hand reached between them, covering the fur at the base of his tail and feeling the hard outline of the metal toy inside. He dug his palm into it, shoving the plug deeper, and swivelled his hips, which swivelled the plug as well. His hole made a wet sucking sound as the rim was stretched from every angle.

_Oh, god, please_ , Sherlock thought. Another circle of his hips, this one rougher, grinding his arse against the plug, and his prick gave a little jerk and began to ache. It would be so easy to pull himself off. One hand holding the tail in place, the other wrapped around his cock, and all he’d have to do would be to thrust between the two.

But he couldn’t do that. For some reason. Something to do with John. It was growing more difficult to think. His thoughts were like grains of sand, too small and quick for him to catch, and they scattered with every jingle of the bell on his collar. It rang constantly now. Sherlock couldn’t stop moving, trying to fuck himself on his tail plug and ease the ache in his cock.

He wanted John. John could slow his mind when it raced. He could stroke up and down Sherlock’s spine, kiss Sherlock’s hair, and murmur sentimental nonsense into Sherlock’s ear until all he could think (all he wanted to think) was what a good kitty he was and how much John adored him.

_Photo_. The thought bobbed suddenly above the rest, and Sherlock rolled to the side and reached for his mobile.

His fingers were too slick with lube. The phone slipped twice in his grip, leaving a sticky mess on the case, and his thumb skidded again and again across the touchscreen without it registering as a full proper swipe. Eventually, growling, Sherlock tossed it aside in frustration and wiped his hands vigorously on the bedsheets, trying to clean them. The sheets creased and moved, making his pillow slide closer.

_Prop_. John sometimes put a pillow beneath Sherlock’s hips to raise his bum and make his hole easier to access. Inspired, Sherlock grabbed the pillow and straddled it, intending to use it to prop his arse up while he tried to photograph his tail.

But it had the unintentional effect of trapping his cock, still erect, between his belly and the pillow, while also freeing his flattened tail, which swung and brushed the backs of his thighs and his testicles. Sherlock’s breath caught and his vision went oddly white-edged and hazy.

_God yes_ , he thought, and couldn’t help but clench around the toy. The hard metal budged and wiggled as his muscles tightened around it, and his prick jerked upwards, pushing into his belly. It ached even more strongly now. The pillow moulded around it, cradled the length in fabric and feather down. Sherlock thought of John plastered against his back, reaching around and cupping Sherlock’s cock like it was a treasure, saying _‘You’re so hard, aren’t you? C’mon, show me how badly you want it.’_

Groaning, Sherlock thrust forwards, rubbing his cock against the pillow, which gave entirely too easily. He repeated the movement, but this time he squeezed the pillow between his thighs, tucked his hips, and slowed his thrust, so that he was dragging the underside of his cock along the pillow. The fabric slipped and bulged, putting pressure everywhere except where he needed it most.

_Please_ , he thought, imagined himself begging John and how John would stroke the sweaty fringe from his forehead. He let go of where he was gripping one corner of the pillow so that he could stroke his hair himself, lingering near the fake ears as John would do and totally ignoring the metal headband that held them in place. So sensitive, his scalp. He crooked his fingers and scratched and wanted to purr in pleasure. He rubbed against the pillow again, whimpering. _Please, John. I need it._

_‘What do you need?’_ John would say, if Sherlock had asked aloud. _‘Show me.’_

Sherlock abandoned his hair and reached behind himself with both hands, gripping his arse cheeks and spreading them. The sensitive strip of skin between them, all the way down to his testicles, felt stretched and tight and completely exposed. His tail swayed as he rolled his hips, almost perfectly in time with the jingling of his collar.

Sherlock loosened his grip and then squeezed his cheeks together. Like John would do, kneeling behind him with Sherlock’s bottom framed between his hands, alternating between spreading and squeezing so he could watch the plug alternate between dipping farther in and slipping slightly out.

And so that Sherlock would spiral slowly, slowly out of his mind, consumed by the desperate and utterly base desire to be fucked until he was keening like the slutty, spoiled kitty he was.

Sherlock was well on his way there already, all on his own. Hunched over the pillow, panting and whimpering into the mattress, and humping as firmly and vigorously as he could into the goose-feather filling, pawing at his own arse cheeks and marvelling at the wet and open feeling between them. His prick had begun to dribble, making a mess of the pillowcase, and the fur at the base of the tail plug was matted and sticky with lube that had leaked from his arsehole.

Oh god, he felt brilliant: whorish, but all the more amazing for it.

Sherlock moved faster, bouncing his hips so hard the bed groaned and shook. He was moaning ceaselessly now. The ringing of his collar echoed loudly in his ears, and he started to think he could come like this, even without proper stimulation, just from sheer, animalistic desperation.

A bang, followed by a softer thud, from elsewhere in the flat stopped him short. He lifted his head, gasping, his hair stuck to his temples with sweat. His brain spun and spun, pushing past the haze to identify the sounds: front door, heavy shoes kicked immediately off indicating familiarity, approaching footsteps, quick stride, wide stance—

_John!_

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned over, inadvertently kicking the pillow in the process, and tried to scramble off the bed.

John appeared in the entrance to the bedroom before he could manage. His face was pink, his short hair windswept. His coat and shoes were off, his jumper untucked, and he was breathing sharply through his nose. Frustrated-exasperated-tired.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. If you ever—” The moment John’s gaze landed on Sherlock, he went silent. His chest expanded suddenly, and his nostrils flared. Shocked-interested-aroused.

_Perfect_.

Sherlock lay down and rolled onto his back, baring his throat submissively. Inviting John to climb on top and touch him, coo at him, spoil him.

“You—” John’s lips tightened. His fists clenched once and then relaxed completely. A good sign.

Sherlock arched his lower back and tipped his chin up, accentuating the collar around his throat and making the little silver bell ring sweetly.

“You manipulative shit,” John said, coming closer. “With your pictures and your collar and that fucking brain of yours.”

John sat, one leg bent up on the mattress and the other hanging off the edge. Immediately, Sherlock stretched towards him and rubbed his cheek against John’s trousers.

John’s voice pitched significantly softer. “You beautiful thing. My gorgeous, gorgeous genius.”

A shudder rolled through Sherlock’s body, and he buried his face in John’s leg with a moan that turned to a happy hum when John laid his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head and scratched.

“Christ.” There was a gentle touch to Sherlock’s inner thigh, then an outwards push, and Sherlock spread his legs obediently. “You… gave the pillow a good rogering, did you?”

Sherlock said nothing, letting John’s hand trail up towards his cock before lifting away. Sherlock’s hips did a sort of hitching half-thrust, trying to bring that touch back, even as he knew that it would do no good. John wouldn’t be rushed.

John sighed; it sounded more fond than annoyed. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. Idiot.”

He climbed farther onto the bed, nudging Sherlock away until he was sprawled on his back beside John. Sherlock had only a moment to blink up at him, pouting, before John was lowering his head to Sherlock’s lap.

Then everything was warm and wet and soft, and something in Sherlock’s body coiled and sprung at the same time that his mind dimmed and slowed, his thoughts going sluggish and fragmented like dollops of marmalade. His legs clamped instinctively tight around John’s head, and he tried (and failed) to roll onto his side and curl up, overwhelmed by the shock of pleasure so strong that it nearly hurt.

John gagged, making a choked sound as his throat muscles convulsed. Horrified, Sherlock loosened his legs and tried to recoil—a whisper of _‘Bad boy’_ looping around and around his mind—but John stopped him with a hand in the small of his back.

And then: suction, a slow gentle pulling sensation as John’s lips moved up and down the length of Sherlock’s cock, his tongue dragging sweetly along the underside. Suddenly the bedroom spun in Sherlock’s vision and his collar jingled, and when he closed his eyes and opened them again, he was on his knees, knelt over John’s face.

Thighs trembling, Sherlock stared dumbly down, watching his prick disappear into John’s hot, slick throat and reappear red and shining. He was keenly aware of the weight of John’s hands on him. One was tight on his waist, holding Sherlock steady, and the other stroked up Sherlock’s spine to his shoulder blades and then down all the way to where Sherlock’s hole was still stretched around the plug. The touch was painfully gentle, reverent. _Good boy_ , it said. _You’re my good boy_.

In seconds, Sherlock was crying out into his own fist and spilling down John’s throat.

By the time John drew back, the trembling in Sherlock’s thighs had worsened. With both hands on Sherlock’s waist now, John helped him onto his back, where Sherlock moaned and blinked dazedly up at the ceiling. He couldn’t find any of the cracks he’d been mapping earlier, although he stopped looking for them after less than a minute of trying. He felt light, floaty, his brain nothing but a mesh of words like _yes_ and _good_.

Sitting beside him, John swiped his chin with the back of wrist and licked his lips. His trousers bulged obscenely, which looked terribly uncomfortable. The sight made Sherlock ache, a deep and throbbing not-quite-pain. He needed to fix it—he needed to fix it _now_.

He turned over and hauled himself to his knees and elbows: offering himself, asking to be fucked just like John had taught him ages ago. On the sitting room floor, John behind him coaxing his head and shoulders to the floor and telling him, _‘That’s it, perfect. You want to be mounted like a good kitten, this is how you ask. Understand?’_

_Mm, yes_.

“On a scale of one to ten,” said John, peering at him, “how out of it are you right now?”

_Not rhetorical_ , Sherlock thought. _He wants you to answer_. It felt like slogging through waist-deep rushing water to open his mouth and speak, but if John expected it of him, if Sherlock wanted to be good for John—

“Very,” he said, voice faint and slightly croaky.

Instantly, John’s fingers were in Sherlock’s hair, combing it back and massaging behind the cat ears. Praising him, rewarding him for answering. Sherlock preened and butted his head tenderly into John’s hand.

“Thought so,” said John. “Might not be the best time for that, then. Are you sure?”

Another effort to speak, this one easier than the first because Sherlock wanted it more. He rested his cheek on the bed, facing John, and gave him the most desperate, plaintive expression he could manage. “Please.”

Then, to drive the point home, he shimmied his hips from side to side, making his tail wag and drawing John’s gaze to it. Reminding him that Sherlock was still plugged and had been this whole time, that it was only a small leap to removing the tail and replacing it with his cock.

“Tart,” John said. The corner of his lip twitched. “Hold still.”

Sherlock did, aside from one wobbly full-body sway when John slipped the toy torturously, carefully out.

“Oh, that’s nice.” John’s voice was warm with approval, sending a shiver of pleasure through Sherlock’s abdomen. “Look how much slick you used. That’s my good, genius boy.”

There was a soft, wet sound as his forefinger slipped inside, and Sherlock groaned into the bed and tried not to rock backwards. The penetration felt different now that he’d come. The pleasure was less insistent, a low simmer rather than a flame.

“Just a bit more,” said John. “I want your hole drenched and dripping. Do you know why?”

_Of course I do_ , Sherlock thought muzzily, flexing his fingers in the bedsheets like he was kneading them while John fetched the lube and got him even wetter.

“Because you’re my pet, aren’t you? Not even a bit of discomfort for my spoiled, perfect kitty.”

_Yesss_. Sherlock stretched, rubbing his cheek blissfully against the sheets while John fingered him open like he was fragile and precious and loved. By the time that John was finally satisfied, Sherlock had three fingers in him, and lubricant dribbling down his balls and gathering in the joins between his pelvis and thighs, and he felt even more floaty and hazy than before.

“All right,” John said, pressing the blunt head of his cock against Sherlock’s arsehole. “Be a good kitty for me, and don’t move.”

John’s prick was long. Thick as well, but it was always the length that affected Sherlock most. When John was inside him, it always seemed to Sherlock like if he put his hand on his stomach he would feel the outline of John’s cock through his skin.

So when John was fully seated, breathing heavily through his nose and gripping Sherlock’s hips like a vice to keep them still, Sherlock felt impaled and helpless: stuffed full and fit to burst. With every breath, Sherlock swore he could feel the stretch of John’s prick all the way in his throat.

“Okay?” John asked.

_Yes_ , Sherlock thought blissfully. _Oh god yes_. He rubbed his cheek on the sheets and moaned, clenching around John’s cock and feeling it twitch inside him.

“Good boy, letting me mount you,” John said, a waver in his voice, and Sherlock shuddered, seeing falling meteors behind his eyelids. “Stay just like that for me, all right?”

_Of course_ , thought Sherlock, practically purring. _Just like this._

John skimmed his palms up Sherlock’s sides, petting him lovingly, and then he began to move. It was a gentle rocking motion, almost leisurely. Sherlock didn’t even feel when his prick withdrew, just when it nudged forwards again and again, seeming to sink deeper every time although that was surely a trick of Sherlock’s mind.

Even though Sherlock’s own prick was still flaccid (and likely to remain that way), it felt good. Startlingly good. It was a dull, deep sort of pleasure that grew slightly stronger with every push of John’s cock into his hole. In minutes, Sherlock was clasping the bedsheets in his fists and gasping, wanting it to go on and on indefinitely.

Then John groaned, low and growling, and laid his hands between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, pushing down so that the slope of Sherlock’s back was steeper and his arse tilted even higher, and the pleasure grew. A throbbing achy sensation from somewhere in his abdomen, radiating outwards. Sherlock’s jaw fell open and his eyes opened wide, and the noise that came from his mouth sounded almost inhuman: an “uhn” that trailed into a soft, keening whine.

“Fuck,” John said, pushing down harder until most of his weight was on Sherlock’s upper back, mashing his chest and face into the bed. “God, that’s hot. Do it again? That, yes. Good kitty.”

He needn’t have bothered asking, as Sherlock seemed incapable of stopping. He whined again and again, with every push of John’s cock into his hole. It felt so good it was nearly painful. It might’ve been painful; it was hard to tell. Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain whether he wanted it to stop or go on, until John withdrew completely—both his prick and his weight on Sherlock’s back—and Sherlock wanted him back immediately. He felt bereft and useless without it.

He lifted his head, looking plaintively towards John who sat beside him, flushed and breathing heavily.

“Just a second,” John said. “Just… I need a minute. Stay there.”

_Stay here_. Sherlock lowered his head back to the mattress, although he gave into the urge to wiggle his bottom, focusing on the messy, open feeling in his arsehole so he didn’t dwell on the loss of John’s prick and that deep, throbbing pleasure.

There was the snick of the lubricant bottle, and then John was rolling towards him, slipping two fingers into him.

“Uhn!” Sherlock said. His collar made a racket as he jolted and then shoved his arse backwards onto John’s hand.

“Do you like that?” John murmured. “How does that feel?”

It felt like pressure, like an utterly indescribable throb of sensation. Sherlock wrenched the sheets and moaned and thought he never wanted it to stop.

“Good,” said John. “I’m glad.” He kissed Sherlock’s hip, followed by his lower back, just above his bottom. “The sounds you make are… god, you’re gorgeous. Still want more?”

Sherlock did, and moaned gratefully when John knelt behind him and replaced his fingers with his prick, which slid in easily (if noisily) and felt so bloody perfect that Sherlock wanted to shout but could only manage a whimpering cry and another twist of the bedsheets.

John rocked into him just as gently and leisurely as before, although this time Sherlock could feel him trembling with the effort to keep himself controlled.

“Listen to you,” he said gruffly, as though he’d been choked. “You love this. You love being my pet and getting fucked like a good boy. No, don’t do that.” Because Sherlock had started to move back and hump himself on John’s prick. “I told you to stay there, didn’t I? Be good.”

Sherlock wanted to be good. He wanted badly to be good, to have John praise him and stroke him and call him a good kitty, but it was becoming increasingly harder to stay still. His cock was still soft, bouncing with every aborted thrust, but it was also still leaking. He could feel fluid dribbling from the slit the way it usually did when he was so aroused and erect that it hurt. Only John’s fingers had ever done this to him, never his dick, and god it was so much bigger than John’s fingers, so much more unforgiving.

When John pulled out again, Sherlock nearly howled in protest but managed to stop himself in time. He wanted to be good. He would be good for John, who was open-mouthed and gasping now, his prick wet and twitching.

“It’s okay,” John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock leaned into him, trying to ignore how strongly he was shaking. “You’re doing so well. Just a little longer, all right? I don’t want it to be over this soon.”

It went on for ages. John fucked him and then pulled out twice more. On the third, Sherlock felt positively ruined. His prick was still flaccid, still dripping so much the sheets were probably stained and soaked, and the pressure, the throbbing ache inside him, was merciless. Every “uhn” when John pushed into him sounded wounded, the shaking in his limbs had worsened, and still John told him, “God, I adore you. You’re perfect.” So Sherlock held on, until the pressure started abruptly to build, and he began to think that maybe he might—

John pulled out, sudden and clumsy, and flopped onto his back next to Sherlock, chest heaving and his cock dark red and pulsing like it was about to come, like it was seconds away from shooting all over the sheets.

Sherlock thought he might cry. He abandoned all attempts to be good and keep still and he scrambled over to John, head-butting his bicep and nuzzling him, catlike and pleading.

“Please,” he said. His voice swelled around a sob. “Please. Please.”

Instantly, John’s arms were around him, drawing him into John’s chest. Sherlock felt John’s prick, blood hot and as hard as steel, against his hip, and whimpered. He needed it, god he needed it. He tried to spread his legs, tried to encourage John to shove it back inside him and fuck him until the pressure, the throbbing, was gone.

John stroked his hair and his back, saying, “Shh. I know. I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I got too caught up in me. C’mon, back you go.”

Whining and utterly powerless to do anything but comply, Sherlock let himself be flipped back over and moved about until he was in the same position he’d been in before. His knees protested a bit at being made to bend again, but he ignored them. John would fix it. John would take care of him. He always did.

He sobbed when John eased his cock into Sherlock’s hole, and this time, finally oh god finally, John didn’t even try to stop Sherlock from rocking with him, shoving his arse back and forth on John’s prick and fucking himself in short, desperate thrusts.

It was bliss. So glorious and perfect that Sherlock brought a fistful of bedsheets to his mouth so that he could wail into them. _Oh god_ , he thought, as John began to move faster and rougher. Quick, sharp stabbing thrusts that felt so good it was absurd. His prick, not entirely flaccid now, throbbed and dribbled even harder. _Oh fuck. Yes, please, there._

There wasn’t any sensation of building this time. Suddenly Sherlock was just _there_. The dribbling became one spurt after another, and his bollocks were drawing up, and it felt… earth-shattering, devastating. The orgasm didn’t start from his cock, but from somewhere deeper, and it reached farther. He could feel it in his stomach, in his knees, in his bones and blood, and he was crying “ah, ah, ah” into the sheets, eyes squeezed shut and his whole body heaving. Vaguely aware that John was lifting him by his waist so he was sitting up with his back against John’s chest, John’s pelvis digging into his arse cheeks.

He didn’t care. Didn’t care either that John kept fucking him, bouncing him in John’s lap while one of his hands rested on Sherlock’s throat, covering the leather collar and muffling the jingling bell.

“So perfect,” John said. His teeth were gritted; he was out of breath. “Even when you’re a brat, you’re perfect. With your collar and your ears and that bloody tail, _this_ ”—he thrust up so hard that Sherlock’s teeth clacked together and his prick gave another, weak spurt—“ _arse_ , fucking hell, Sherlock. I worship you. You have no—no—”

John pressed a sloppy kiss to Sherlock’s back and then buried his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, alternating grunts and groans as he filled Sherlock’s hole with come.

It promptly began to leak out when John removed his prick a few minutes later. Sherlock could feel thick globs of it seeping past his loosened rim and falling onto the bed. He moaned, feeling shaky and helpless and beautiful. Even more so when John, still panting and no doubt exhausted, eased Sherlock onto his side and then curled up behind him.

Sherlock’s entire body felt hypersensitive. The metal headband fixing the cat ears to his head seemed suddenly too tight, the ends of it digging into his sensitive scalp. He only had to swipe at the ears once, his arm weak and rubbery, for John to understand and slip the headband off for him. The collar seemed a bit uncomfortable now as well, the leather tight and chafing, but Sherlock was loath to be rid of it just yet, especially when John seemed keen to snuffle and nose at it tenderly while they both recovered.

“Still out of it?” John asked when he’d caught his breath.

Sherlock could feel the vibrations from his voice against his back, rumbling through his ribcage, and it seemed important to rumble back at John, so he could feel Sherlock’s voice in his sternum.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said John. He brought one of his hands to Sherlock’s face and let Sherlock nuzzle and lick at his palm before he began to rake his fingers through Sherlock’s curls gently—so gently and carefully that tenderness swelled between Sherlock’s lungs.

After a brief silence, during which Sherlock sighed and arched and hummed, Sherlock admitted, “Maybe a bit.”

“Well, when you’re not, you are in so much sodding trouble.” Although John’s tone was stern, his touch remained soft, reverent. “Texting me pictures like that. I left the surgery two hours early, you know. Figured I was probably doing a shit job of it, since the only thing I could think about was what you were doing here with your collar and your ears.”

_Oh good, then it worked_ , Sherlock thought muzzily, but didn’t say. He sighed happily. “I’m your good kitty. You adore me; you just said so.”

“Maybe a bit,” John said, and scratched playfully behind Sherlock’s ear.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [猫尾情挑](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694108) by [LoveBBCSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveBBCSH/pseuds/LoveBBCSH)




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